Perhaps all this talk of despair emits the irresistible fragrance of regretting a life looked back on, a framed photograph kept in a room you enter daily – yet like a road closure during the morning commute, it’s only worth remarking on once.
Maybe all that remains to be finished provides you the only hope you need to continue on, for when you pay attention to that miraculous desolation called the everyday you will no doubt detect a sliver of blessed light from the closest star falling cleanly across the arms of the elderly couple in the supermarket hotly debating which brand of canned soup to buy.
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Heading into winter I will be heeding this beautiful fragment of prayer you offer here, to "pay attention to that miraculous desolation called the everyday...", which you so carefully and beautifully delineate at perhaps, maybe.
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